


On the Mend

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Foo Fighters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-21
Updated: 2005-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 06:32:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1636592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave waits, and watches over Taylor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Mend

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Aurorasbored

 

 

Disclaimer: The story that follows is entirely a work of fiction. Nothing is meant to be implied about the real people named within this story as the events described all come from the author's imagination.

* * *

Somewhere, someone was calling for him.

Taylor. He recognized Taylor's voice calling out his name, over and over, but Dave couldn't find him anywhere. He kept running through the halls of the hospital, searching every room, every bed, asking the nurses and doctors and orderlies and anyone he could find for help. They only stared at him blankly, as if they did not understand a word he said, or pointed him back in the direction from which he'd just come, sending him in seemingly endless loops through the same corridors.

 _"Dave!"_ he heard Taylor calling again, his voice sounding more urgent with each cry. _"Dave, hurry!"_

_"Fuck, Taylor, where the hell are you?!"_

Beep, beep, beep...The clock was ticking, incessantly, counting down to something important, something critical and Dave knew he had to find Taylor before time ran out.

_"Dave, I'm here! Help me!"_

The faster he tried to run toward the voice, the slower he seemed to be moving. In fact, now he could hardly move at all, no matter how hard he tried to push his arms and legs into motion. It was as if he were paralyzed and his limbs refused to obey him. He struggled and cursed, panic growing within him as he couldn't understand what was going on.

Now the doctors were gathering around him with concern, even as he shouted at them to leave him alone, to just help him find Taylor, that was all that mattered, finding Taylor.

_"Dave, hurry! Dave!"_

_"I can't find you, Taylor! **Taylor!** " _he screamed, as the doctors took hold of him. _"Stop it! STOP! I need to find Taylor! He needs me! Leave me alone!"_

Beep, beep, beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep....

**"Taylor!"**

Dave jerked awake in his chair so suddenly he almost fell out of it. Eyes flying open, he looked around, disoriented, not remembering for a moment where he was.

 _Hospital room_ , the realization then came to him.

Taylor.

The overdose.

_Fuck._

Yeah, now he remembered. Remembered more than he really cared to at this point. He'd drifted asleep and fallen right into a disturbing dream, although the reality that he was facing now was little improvement over his nightmare.

He hadn't meant to doze off, and was pretty pissed at himself for doing so. Dave had been trying to keep up his bedside vigil through the night, but apparently his exhaustion—emotional as well as physical—had gotten the better of him during the early morning hours. Last he'd checked the time, it had been a little after 3 a.m. Now his watch said 7:48—almost five hours later.

 _Too damn long. Should have taken something to keep me up,_ he scolded himself. Of course, considering Taylor was in his current state thanks to his _own_ drug problem, taking anything stronger than an aspirin seemed, well, kind of distasteful to Dave at the moment. But still, he was supposed to be here for his best friend; what good was he if he was asleep when Taylor needed him the most?

Dave rubbed his eyes, trying to wake up fully and wipe away the remnants of his unpleasant dream, then glanced over at the man in the hospital bed next to him. He looked for some sign of change, any indication of improvement, but Taylor seemed the same as he had before, as if he were fast asleep, though his condition was significantly more grave than that. Comatose, the drummer lay completely unresponsive, unmoving, save the steady rise and fall of his chest while the ventilator forced his lungs to work. His dirty blond hair fell limp and scraggly about his face, and his skin looked unnaturally pale, especially for California "Golden Boy" Taylor, a man who lived for the beach and the sunshine and always seemed to have a perfect tan.

The doctors said his chances were quite good for a full recovery, seeing how he'd been rushed to the hospital immediately following his collapse and there didn't _seem_ to be any indications of permanent damage to his system. Still, comas were difficult to predict—he could wake up any minute, disoriented but otherwise fine. Or, he could be out of it for weeks—even months—after which his prognosis would be much less optimistic.

That Taylor had a drug problem had been no news to Dave—a fact which only made him feel guilty for not taking the drummer's addictions more seriously in the past. Maybe he'd avoided dealing with the situation because it brought back too many unpleasant memories. Maybe he'd purposefully not thought about it, not wanting to remember other friends who'd fucked up their lives on drugs to the point that now they were dead.

Maybe if he didn't push so hard, all of the time, keeping up such a crazy touring schedule, always driving everyone so hard to meet his standards of perfection on album and on stage. And yeah, maybe if he'd done something about it months ago instead of flying off to focus on his own side projects, instead of putting on the blinders so he wouldn't be reminded of those others who were dead now, like Kurt...

 _Fuck all that, it's too late now._ Time enough to beat himself up later, Dave knew. Whatever he'd done or not done in the past, what he did now was what mattered. Being here for Taylor and trying to bring him out of this coma was what he had to focus on.

"Hey Taylor, sorry I dozed off on you." He stood and stretched, his back protesting painfully as he did so and telling him in no uncertain terms that the little plastic chair he'd been camped out in was in no way meant for a restful night's sleep. But comfort was truly the least of his worries at the moment. Nothing mattered more than being here, as he'd been here all night as well as the night before, and all of the day in between. Almost two full days at this point. He was determined to be here when Taylor woke up, and determined that it had to happen soon.

"Taylor, it's me, Dave," he said, reaching to take Taylor's hand and squeezing it gently, hopeful for some response back, if not to his voice than perhaps to his touch. "It's almost eight o'clock—I know that's normally barely past bedtime for you, but I think you've been sleepin' long enough now, don't you think?"

Dave watched, waiting for even the smallest twitch or movement, but nothing. His heart sank a little, but he tried not to let it come across in his voice or demeanor. The doctors had told him that it was important to keep up an optimistic spirit and speak positively to Taylor, that it could help him come out of his coma faster.

Still, he didn't like the way Taylor's hand felt in his own, so limp and cool to his touch. He missed the way the drummer's hands normally felt—warm and so alive—missed the devilish smile on his face and the ever-present twinkle of mischief in his eyes. "I'm waiting right here for you, buddy, but this whole hospital scene is getting a little tired, you hear me? We miss you. _I_ miss you. And I promise when you come out of this that I'm not gonna beat the shit out of you for being an asshole, even though you deserve it, okay?"

Nothing. Just the steady beeping of the monitoring equipment, the sound of the ventilator, a muffled announcement over the speakers in the hallway, calling for Doctor Someone-or-other. Dave sighed and sank back into his chair, though he kept his grasp of Taylor's hand.

Today could be another very long day, he realized.

A few minutes later, a knock on the door startled Dave from his thoughts. He turned and saw Nate as the door opened, standing there with a large paper bag in his right hand.

"Hey."

"Hey. Any change?" Nate asked hopefully.

Dave shook his head. "Nothing."

"Damn. You been in here all night?"

"Yeah. Fell asleep for a while."

"Don't think it was long enough—you look like shit."

"Like I give a fuck how I look right now."

"Whatever." Nate went over to Taylor's left side, opposite to where Dave sat. "Hey buddy, it's Nate. You really oughtta wake up, I brought your favorite breakfast: fried egg on a toasted kaiser, extra crispy bacon, provolone cheese." He reached into the bag and pulled out the wrapped breakfast sandwich. "If you don't eat it, Dave will. You know Dave'll eat anything. When _was_ the last time you ate, anyway?"

"Dunno...some time yesterday, I guess," Dave replied, scratching his head.

"Well here, take this." Nate reached in the bag and pulled out another sandwich, tossing it in Dave's lap.

"I'm not hungry."

"Bullshit. Eat it. Starving yourself isn't going to make Taylor get better any quicker."

Nate had a point, and truthfully Dave didn't realize how hungry he was until he got a good whiff of the sandwich. Something about bacon grease really _was_ just about enough to wake the dead. "Thanks," he said, as he withdrew his hand from Taylor's so he could unwrap the sandwich.

"I got coffee, too, figured you'd need it." Nate walked over and put the styrofoam cup on the small stand next to the bedside. Patting Dave gently on the shoulder, he continued, "Maybe you should take a walk for a while. I'm here now, I can keep watch for a few hours. Chris is gonna come by later, too. It hasn't been all that easy out there either, you know. All the promoters screaming for blood because we had to cancel the shows, and now the press is running wild with all sorts of shit—that Taylor's suffered permanent brain damage, that it was heroin, that his condition is touch-and-go..."

"Yeah, well, fuck all of that bullshit. None of it matters."

Nate shrugged. "I'm just saying...I'm just telling you that's how it is right now, that's all. You might want to get out there and clear up some of the nonsense before it gets out of hand."

"That's what we've got managers and fucking PR people for, Nate. I don't give a flying fuck what some shitty gossip rag wants to say right now. All I care about is being here for Taylor."

"Still, I think you could use a break, Dave. You've been here, what, almost two days now? Why don't you go back to the hotel for a little while, at least catch some decent sleep? I'll call you if anything changes."

"I'll be fine."

"Okay, whatever you say." Nate sounded less than convinced as he walked away, taking the chair on the opposite side of the bed.

"I'm telling you, I'm fine," Dave insisted. " _I'm_ not the one in a fucking coma!"

"No, you're not. But you don't have to act like you're the only one who can bring Taylor out of it!" Nate shook his head. "I know you're worried, but Taylor's my friend too. You're not the only one who cares. And you're not the only one who should have to keep watch."

"I know. I _know_. But I just..." Dave paused. "I've lost other people before. Like this. And never...I wasn't there when it mattered."

"Taylor's not Kurt, Dave."

"You think I don't fucking know that?!"

"Sometimes I wonder. Look—" Nate raised his hand to silence Dave before he could respond to that remark. "I'm just trying to tell you this isn't something you have to deal with all by yourself. I'm here. Chris will be here. We're supposed to be a band—a _team_ —and we _all_ take care of each other. You don't have to shoulder all of the burden." Nate paused to sip his coffee for a few moments. When he continued, he spoke more softly. "I know you and Taylor...I know you're... _closer_...than you are with me and Chris. And that's cool. But don't shut the rest of us out of everything. Don't think we don't care or we can't help out at times like this just because were not... _more_ than band mates."

Dave was a bit taken aback by Nate's remarks, his understanding of the way things were. "I'm sorry if that's what it seems like, sometimes."

"Yeah, it does. And I get that. I just don't think it has to be that way, you know?"

Dave nodded. They fell silent for a while, working on their breakfasts and coffees. It was true—he was closer to Taylor than any of the other Foos, current or past. Closer than most people realized, and for fairly obvious reasons it had to stay that way. Other musicians had come and gone, but Dave had known that Taylor was meant to be in the band with him from the moment he'd first heard the drummer play. They'd hit it off instantaneously, both musically and personally. Musically, Taylor seemed to know exactly what Dave wanted from him as a drummer—and as far as Dave was concerned and no matter how many people claimed _he_ was the best, Taylor far surpassed him technically and with his frenetic, boundless energy. And personally, they connected on a level Dave had not expected or been looking for in a band mate, but found impossible to deny once the connection had been made.

With Nate and Chris, it was different. He loved them both and loved working with them, but it wasn't the same. Taylor was his best friend—more than his friend. He couldn't imagine the band going on without Taylor, whereas he'd replaced others before and would do so again if he had to, to keep the group going.

Truthfully, he couldn't even imagine his _life_ without Taylor any longer, which was a pretty scary thing to realize. He just prayed he wouldn't have to do more than simply imagine it, prayed he'd get the chance soon to let Taylor know just how much he meant to Dave, and that he'd never let him down like this again.

"Sorry if I snapped at you," Dave apologized to Nate. "I'm just really on edge."

"Don't worry about it. You're tired. Seriously, why don't you go take a rest for a while?"

"Nah, I'm gonna stick it out, at least for a few more hours," Dave said, reclaiming his hold on Taylor's hand. As weary as he felt, he wasn't ready to give up his vigil quite yet. "But I am glad you're here, Nate. I'm sure Taylor is, too."

"I bet Taylor would be gladder if I'd snuck a bottle of Jack Daniel's in with me, right, Tay?"

Dave couldn't be sure it wasn't simply his sleep-deprived imagination, but he _thought_ at Nate's remark that he felt the smallest twitch, for the first time, in Taylor's fingers.

And at that, Dave started to laugh.

"Well fuck if you ain't right, Nate. Fuck it all if you ain't."

end

 


End file.
